Contact
by pixierainbow
Summary: John learns something interesting regarding Sherlock and physical contact. But can he use this to help the great detective when a string of murders seem to hit a bit close to home?  M for violence.  Friendship, or slash-if-you-really-squint. Some spoiler.
1. Chapter 1

John isn't sure when he first notices it. He can't remember if it started shortly after their first, memorable case, or if it was later than that. All he knows is that at some point – some time after he stopped being 'John Watson, flatmate' and started being 'John Watson, friend' – Sherlock started getting more comfortable around him. Comfortable enough that he would sit slightly closer when in a taxi – comfortable enough not to flinch instantly when they accidentally touched.

John also isn't sure when he realises this matters. Somewhere in between the chases, the arguments, and the body parts in the fridge, John realises that Sherlock isn't good at affection. That his awkward way of standing slightly too close, and the occasional grab of his wrist as he sprints off are the only ways Sherlock knows to express his concern. The more John thinks about it, the more he begins to wonder whether Sherlock has ever had a friend before. John's certainly had to restrain himself in his own affection somewhat – the military unit he was part of was full of backslapping, punches in the arm, and the occasional rough hug when things didn't work out they way they should. He's not 'touchy-feely' by any means – Harry used to laugh at how he'd stiffen when she would pull him into a drunken hug (though whether that was the contact or the alcohol he'd never quite worked out). But compared to Sherlock? John knows he's practically clingy.

He puts it out of his mind, and it stays there – at least, until the incident at the pool. Sherlock had pulled the trigger – John knew he would, and had positioned himself, a mass of coiled muscle, waiting to spring and pull them both into the pool the moment his finger even twitched – and then there was fire, and water, and rocks and _ohgodpleaseletussurvivethis_, and finally, silence. He'd clambered out of the water, dragging Sherlock's heavy form after him, and lay, gasping for breath on the side. He'd helped him sit up, wary of the blood pouring from the side of Sherlock's head, matting in his dark curls. "Sherlock," he'd said, waving a hand in front of vacant eyes, watching as they'd snapped into focus. "Hey, hey Sherlock, look at me…what's my name?"  
>"John Watson, you imbecile," Sherlock had replied, and cracked a weary smile. It was only when the sirens came, and Sherlock was helped to his feet by the paramedics that John realised Sherlock had been clinging to his wrist so tightly his hand felt numb.<p>

"John!" Mycroft said, seemingly pleased to see him. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about? I kept meaning to visit – I wanted to thank you for looking after my brother. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, I don't think we could have kept him in that hospital for more than an hour." John can't help but smile at the memory of Sherlock's petulant expression as he was informed he had to stay in 'for observation'. "Yes. Well." He coughs, suddenly wondering if talking to Mycroft (Mycroft, of all people!) is the best thing to do.  
>"Mycroft, has Sherlock ever had…well, friends?" Mycroft looks down at his umbrella, and twirls it thoughtfully, scratching out meaningless symbols in the dust. "Some." There's a long pause, and John keeps his gaze fixed on the elder Holmes brother. "He had a few, in primary school, before the others realised he was different. And then there was one, Victor Trevor his name was, who he met in university. Bloody brilliant man, I offered him a job as soon as we met, and unlike a certain ungrateful brother of mine, he accepted. He lives in Moscow currently." There's another silence, more awkward than the last, and this time it's Mycroft who asks the question, "Why?"<br>"He's…" John coughs again, and outlines his line of thinking.  
>"Ah," is all Mycroft replies, and then he looks around. "I think this might take longer than a short walk in the park – may I buy you dinner?" John half-laughs, wondering if either of the brothers realise just how strange it is for a man to ask him that with no hidden intentions. Or at least, no hidden intentions of the sort you would expect from an offer of dinner. Plenty of intentions regarding illegal, dangerous and fascinating things…his mind wanders back on track, and he agrees.<p>

They end up in an American style diner that Mycroft swears Sherlock would never dream of entering, and John finds himself making a mental note to get in touch with Mycroft more often. "So," Mycroft says. "What do you know about my brother?"  
>"What?"<br>"How much do you know about his past, beyond what I told you earlier?"  
>"He's a recovering addict, is rather fond of his mother, rarely mentions his father, and studied at Cambridge – purely to avoid you, as you went to Oxford." John shrugs. "I never really asked."<br>"I assume you've figured some parts out for yourself?"  
>"Like what? I'd assume he had few friends, spent a lot of time in the library, and got bullied throughout high school, especially if I'm right in thinking you both went to a boys' school." Mycroft smiles.<br>"Well done," he says, and John is certain he's trying his best not to say 'good boy' too. "My brother was never one to pretend he wasn't intelligent. I think it's one of the reasons he is rather bitter about me – I managed to avoid the bullying he suffered daily, because I was willing to compromise somewhat. Sherlock's early years were somewhat…difficult. His main source of comfort was from mother, of course, but soon enough the torments started when the other boys would see him hold her hand when leaving school. He withdrew then, and there was a point at which I'm relatively sure the only contact he was receiving was kicks and punches." John notices the way Mycroft won't meet his eyes, and he comes to another realisation – Mycroft doesn't enjoy interfering in Sherlock's life, he just worries.  
>"Go on," he says.<br>"You've met one of his university 'friends', have you not?"  
>"Sebastian? Yes." John realises his voice sounds a little harsher than it should, but Mycroft only laughs.<br>"A good example of them. Victor Trevor, however, was fiercely intelligent, and took the time to actually speak to Sherlock. Shocked as he was by what Sherlock could tell him, he didn't consider him a freak, but rather, someone interesting, and that was that. They would visit each other often out of term, and though they grew apart when Victor married, I believe they still keep in touch as often as their jobs allow them." John couldn't help but be surprised at this news – until just a few hours ago, he hadn't even heard of this Victor Trevor. "Victor, however, was similar to Sherlock – not one for affection. And so, my brother, up until this last year, has had very little physical contact with anyone who wasn't out for blood beyond the occasional mothering hug from Mrs Hudson." Realisation floods over John, and Mycroft smiles. "You, Dr Watson, stepped into my brother's life and reminded him of a very simple, very human need, and I'm not sure exactly how he plans on deal with this. However, there is one more thing you should know about my brother." John raises his eyebrows. "He is very similar to me in more ways than he will admit, and one of these ways is how he responds to the world. You see, Dr Watson, Sherlock's mind never stops. It is why he struggles to sleep, and why he spent a large portion of his life 'drugged to the eyeballs'. Whereas I have spent years learning to control this, he basks in it. However, we are both rather…sensitive." John snorts involuntarily, and Mycroft glares. "Dr Watson, amusing as this may be, this is important. You see, to Sherlock, and, to a lesser extent, me, physical contact is somewhat overwhelming. If we are concentrating, it is fine, but it can overtake the way we process the world, and, in some way, give us a sense of peace. Sherlock used to delight in his mother, and still does, because her constant affection allowed him in some ways to switch off."  
>And suddenly, John understands. He understands Sherlock's desperate grip on his wrist in the pool, and the way it's always during the most difficult part of a case that Sherlock will tug on his wrist and break into a sprint, and most importantly, why when Donovan and Anderson are there, he stands that bit too near. Mycroft nods at John. "Now, if Sherlock asks, I was enquiring about the pool, yes?"<p>

John walks back to 221B, his head swimming with the new information. How had he not realised? Of course that was what it was – it was something he'd seen before, people who were so touch-starved that they didn't know how to react, how to initiate the simplest of things. His phone buzzes twice, and, sighing wearily, he pulls it from his pocket, expecting the usual BORED – SH he receives regularly. Instead, he finds one from Mycroft saying:

_What you learned might come in useful soon. There's a reason I told you. Look after him. – MH_

And another from Sherlock, saying simply:

_CASE – SH._

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><p><strong>More to come soon :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for taking so long with this - I'll try to upload a few more chapters in the next few days to make up for it. :)**

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!" he shouts up the stairs, and he is answered with a mop of curls peering round the doorframe. "We have a case!" the man shouts, and John sighs, limping slightly as he heads upwards. "What is it this time?"<br>"A murder!" Sherlock passes him his jacket, and John takes it wearily, before following his flatmate out the door.

They pull up in one of the rougher streets of London, and Sherlock sweeps over to Lestrade's side. "The body?"  
>"Down here." They set off down a side-street, and John catches them up just as they reach the scene. It's a teenager – barely even that, John realises with a start. Sherlock crouches, pouring over the victim's injuries, and John finds himself trying desperately not to be sick. The boy's fingers are broken, and there's shallow, almost paper-cut knife wounds covering large patches of his skin. "This isn't just a murder!" he exclaims, and Lestrade grits his teeth.<br>"Torture." Sherlock stands up, and John is suddenly very aware of the tension in his posture. He steps nearer, trying to look as though he wants a closer look at the body himself, but Sherlock barely even seems to notice. "Why do you need me, Lestrade? It's a gang murder – a bunch of children playing at violence. See if any of the gangs you know of break their 'enemies' fingers. Now…"  
>"Sherlock," Lestrade says, and he looks older than John has even seen him look. "We can't just wade into this. It'll start a war." Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and Lestrade runs a hand though his hair. "Please." There's a pause that seems to stretch on forever, and Sherlock turns around and stalks away. "Fine."<p>

And John is sure, as they sit in silence in the taxi back to Baker Street, that it is the closest they have ever sat.

Two days later, John comes home from work to find Sherlock lying on the couch, with two nicotine patches on his arm. "Another case?"  
>"Same. Well, no. Same but different. Another murder." John stays quiet, knowing Sherlock will fill the silence with what he knows so far.<br>"A girl this time – older than the last, seventeen. No broken fingers, no knife wounds, but cigarette burns and a gunshot to the head." He sits up, long fingers pulling his sleeve over his forearm, and John notices the way he tugs at the end of it.  
>"How do you know it's the same?"<br>"Bloody, violent, inexplicable death of another teen, from the same estate, within two days? It's the same." John takes Sherlock's word for it.  
>"Why didn't you call me?"<br>"I saw you at the last one, I'm surprised you didn't throw up there and then," Sherlock says dryly.  
>"You should still tell me." There's an awkward silence, and John storms into the kitchen.<br>"Tea?" he shouts. There's no answer, but John knows it's a yes.

It's the third case within a week, and this time it's a double murder – two boys, one older than the other. John is sure they were beaten to death, and struggles to identify their faces. Sherlock stands at his side, their shoulders almost touching. Lestrade has bags under his eyes, and even Anderson and Donovan find themselves unusually quiet.  
>"This is bad," John whispers, and Sherlock has no snide reply. Lestrade nods.<br>"We've caught the murderers every time, but there's something bigger going on here." Sherlock is tugging at his sleeves again, John notices.  
>"It's not a gang war," Sherlock states, before crouching over the two boys, inspecting their clothes, their faces, even the way they are lying on the floor. "This is different." Everyone leans over, and John rests his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock flinches, and John steps backwards, silently cursing.<br>"They weren't killed by anyone else. They killed each other." Lestrade looks confused, and Sherlock draws attention to their nails, gesturing at the blood beneath them.  
>"It could still be a gang war," Lestrade starts, and Sherlock jumps to his feet, his eyes ablaze.<br>"No! It couldn't! Even for teenagers, this is far too savage. Something is different. Wrong." He whirls around, but the street is empty other than the trails of blood. He is a mass of activity, eyes flittering over the dead, hands tugging at sleeves, running through his hair. And then, as quickly as he arrives, he leaves. Lestrade looks at John, his face full of concern, and John just sighs. "I don't know. Sorry." And with that, he's off, chasing after his flatmate.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!" He's out of breath, and his leg is playing up again. His flatmate stops, and turns round, all sharp angles and blazing eyes.  
>"What is it, John? Do you want me to play hero? Want me to tell you who the murderer is?" And for one small second, Sherlock looks defeated.<br>"Sherlock," John says softly, and reaches out, gingerly placing a hand on his upper arm. Sherlock's eyes widen, but he relaxes into it, his breathing slowly momentarily. "Just because something eludes you now does not mean you won't see it. Come on, we'll go for dinner. I'll pay." Sherlock sighs, breaks the contact, and runs a hand through his already messed up curls. Then John hails a taxi, and the moment is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Over dinner – an old-fashioned pub that John favours, they talk. John finds himself extraordinarily aware of the way Sherlock skirts around discussing the case itself, instead enquiring about Sarah (we're on a break, thank you), his job (same as usual, nothing too interesting) and whether Mrs Hudson's noticed the acid-hole in the floor yet (no). His phone buzzes, and he fishes it out of his pocket. Sherlock's eyes follow his hands, burning with something John doesn't recognise. He opens the message, sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Sherlock's shoulders drop slightly, and John finds himself wondering who he was expecting it to be.  
>"Harry?"<br>"Of course."  
>"Drunk, I assume?"<br>"What do you think?  
>"I just -"<br>"Sarcasm, Sherlock. Of course she's drunk, she's always bloody drunk, she's…" And it's then John notices the way Sherlock's fingers are twitching in his direction, as though he wants to reach out to him, but doesn't know how. "It's fine, Sherlock, it's always fine."  
>"But…"<br>"Just leave it, yeah?" For once, his nosy, interfering flatmate does as he's asked, and John flashes him a grateful smile. "Anyway -"  
>"Have you heard from Mycroft recently?" John feels himself start, and knows he's given himself away too soon. Steeling himself, he tries to recover as best he can.<br>"Last week – he took me to dinner."  
>"What for?"<br>"To talk about the pool."  
>"What did you tell him?"<br>"Not much," John shrugs, "He was fussing over your health." Sherlock nods once, seemingly satisfied, and John takes the opportunity to change the subject. "Speaking of your health, you should probably eat that." He gestures towards the almost full plate sitting in front of the whippet-thin man opposite him.  
>"You're not my doctor, John," Sherlock responds, but stabs his fork into a potato.<p>

As always, John notes, the potato ends up whirling round on the end of the fork whilst Sherlock enthuses over some of the particularly curious patrons of the pub. This time it's a young woman, late twenties, her hair in a tight bun and her skirt taut over her curves. It's a game the two of them started playing after John made a wild guess at a barman's past (wrong, of course, but Sherlock laughed, and it had become tradition). John starts, as always, glad of the distraction. "Checking her phone," he notes, "Stood up for a date. Probably the first, by the looks of that skirt. But the hair – it's someone she knows from work, she doesn't want to look too different from her work-persona. The shoes are splashed with mud, so she walked rather than getting a taxi, implying she's nervous and wanted time to get herself together." He pauses, and sips from his pint, hoping she doesn't turn round and think he's eyeing her up. "Large handbag, so she's probably going to go home after the pub rather than stay out for clubbing, since it'd be too unwieldy."  
>"Well done!" Sherlock exclaims. "Completely wrong, but at least you're thinking logically this time." And then, as he always does, he explains his conclusions – conclusions that make perfect sense as soon as John hears them. She's a druggie, the hair is a ruse to look professional rather than suspicious, and the handbag is so she has somewhere to stash her gains. The skirt implies she's down on her luck, and is hoping to sleep with the dealer in exchange for paying less. There's more, but John's attention wanders, caught by a stray thought.<br>"Sherlock," he says, and Sherlock's eyes flick back to him. "Where did…"  
>"Did I source my habit?" he responds, his lips quirking upwards into a smirk.<br>"Um. Yes."  
>"Most places – Mycroft had a tendency to hunt down my dealers, so I had to find new contacts nearly every week."<br>"Do -"  
>"I still partake? Sometimes. Less so since you moved in." There's an awkward silence, and Sherlock wolfs down some of his meal.<br>"So," John says eventually. "The case. I've seen bodies like that before." Sherlock's eyes bore into his own, and John purses his lips. "It's not about the death – it's about the violence, isn't it?" And suddenly Sherlock is smiling, and John could swear he's almost bouncing in his seat.  
>"Much better!" he shouts, and John is conscious that most of the pub have just swivelled in their seats to stare at them. "Oh, I knew bringing you to crime scenes with me was a worthwhile move. Then again," he says, and flashes John a broad grin, "When am I ever wrong?"<p>

John gets home from work the next day to find Sherlock lying on the couch with three nicotine patches on his arm. "Didn't think to call me then?" Sherlock looks up, and John can't help but notice the way his hair is standing away from the head, the way it does when he's been running his hands repeatedly through it.  
>"You were in work. One of us has to pay for this place." John knows Sherlock has more than enough money for them both, and Sherlock knows that John knows. So why would he lie?"<br>"Is there something wrong?" John asks, placing his shopping bag on the table in the kitchen and leaning in the doorway, arms folded, eyes fixed on Sherlock's face.  
>"Why would there be?"<br>"This case, it's…"  
>"Oh, don't start this again. Unlike you and your sentimentality, I can distance myself from these scenes." And it's there, John thinks, the tell-tale phrasing. Not 'I don't care', but 'I can distance myself'. He thought the incident at the pool had changed Sherlock, but perhaps it had always been this way and no-one else thought to question it. He wants to argue, to tell him that it's okay if it bothers him, because dammit, these are children being found, and no-one would think any less of him for caring. He doesn't, because he knows he's wrong. Sherlock would think less of himself, and right now, they need him to be the egotistical, arrogant genius he is. So he just shrugs, and walks back into the kitchen.<p>

When he returns, Sherlock has his hands pressed to his lips, and John could swear they were trembling.


	4. Chapter 4

John sits in his office, listening to one of his more regular patients ramble on about how her cousin's boyfriend's neighbour's sister's ex-husband's nephew had exactly the same thing and he had to go into hospital, and thinks of Sherlock.

No-one would ever call John an emotional man, by any means. He gets angry with himself and his leg, worries about Harry, but he is not what one would call 'emotional'. He doesn't over think things, he tries to approach the world with a certain British practicality, and he certain doesn't worry about his flatmate when he should be working.

Except, John does worry. John always worries. He finds himself worrying whenever Sherlock leaves the house, a feeling akin to fear gripping his heart when his head tells him that Mor- that that man is still out there. He worries when he sees Sherlock's shoulders tense at the word freak, when he leaves Sherlock alone in one of his black moods, when Sherlock twitches and lights up at the world, and John knows he's fallen back on his old habits. John wonders if Sherlock knows this, if it's something he's managed to read in the way he stands, the way he snaps and occasionally storms down the stairs at three in the morning, shouting 'I've had enough', before returning an hour or so later. He must know, John thinks. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"So then, y'see, I tried using this homeopathic remedy my niece's boyfriend's mother recommended, only it didn't get any better, so now I figured that maybe I should come and see you, not that…"

John writes her a prescription and refers her to an arthritis specialist, before calling the next patient in. It's going to be a very long day if his mind keeps wandering like this.

It's a couple of hours later when his phone buzzes, and he ignores it like usual. Except, unlike the quick buzz it does for a text, someone is ringing him. People never ring him on shift. He excuses himself, and answers the phone to Sherlock.  
>"John?"<br>"Yes?"  
>"Are you still at work?"<br>"You know I am, why?"  
>"I...actually, nevermind."<br>"Why, Sherlock?"  
>"It doesn't matter."<br>"Go on."  
>"I was hoping you could go down to the station to pick up some results for me."<br>"Do you need them now?" There's a short pause.  
>"No."<br>"I'll get them on my way home then." There's another pause, longer this time. "Sherlock?"  
>"Okay." And with a click, the man hangs up. John starts to return to his waiting patient, looks down at his phone, and stops.<p>

Sarah rolls her eyes as he leaves.

Just over an hour later, he returns to Baker Street. "Sherlock!" he shouts on his way up the stairs. "I've got the results for you!" There's no response, and John's thoughts race –what if _he's_ here, what if Sherlock's gone, what if…  
>He reaches the living room, and sees Sherlock sprawled on the floor, syringe in hand, eyes glassy. Instantly, the file is on the floor and John is kneeling uncomfortably among test-tubes and acid-spills. "Sherlock, you bloody idiot!"<br>"You…you're doing that…you're interrupting!" the man says, and John lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.  
>"Interrupting what?"<br>"M'experiment…" Sherlock slurs, and John leaves for his bedroom. Sherlock doesn't follow.

Time passes. John isn't sure how long it takes, but eventually there's a knock on his door. "What?" he says, not moving from his bed.  
>"I…uh, that is to say…"<br>"What, Sherlock?"  
>"Can I come in?" John relents, and opens the door. Sherlock is white, shaking, and there's vomit staining his skin and clothes.<br>"Bloody hell, Sherlock, let's get you cleaned up."  
>"No, I…" He reaches towards John, and John takes hold of his wrists.<br>"We'll clean you up, then we can talk, alright?" He leads him to the bathroom, removes his jacket (thank God, John thinks, it didn't get on the shirt or trousers), and wipes his face. Sherlock doesn't speak, doesn't even respond – he just trembles and stares at John like a trapped animal. When he's sufficiently cleaned up, John sits him on the couch and makes him some toast. "Eat it." Reluctantly, trying not to gag, Sherlock does.  
>"You're an idiot," John says.<br>"You weren't meant to be home." John presses his palms against his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut, and sighs.  
>"Are you going to tell me what the experiment was for?"<br>"They all did it."  
>"What?"<br>"The cases. They all did it John, some kind of drug, I'm sure of it, so I tried to trace it."  
>"And?" Sherlock stays silent, and stares at the floor. John pushes himself out of his chair, and picks up the file. A few pages in, he looks back up.<br>"Well, they were all on something, that was right."  
>"Of course I'm right."<br>"How did it work?"  
>"It…I thought it was a way to -" he pauses, breathes deeply, and John notices the tear-tracks on his cheeks, "…induce a violent response." John's heart begins to beat faster, and he leads close into Sherlock's face.<br>"You. Thought. That?" Sherlock tries to lean away, to back into the couch, but John's eyes are hard and his heart is pounding in his ears. "And you tried it anyway?"  
>"John, I…" John presses his hand hard on his shoulder, and Sherlock throws himself backwards. There's silence, and John takes a step back.<br>"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just. You can't do these things, you know?" Sherlock is trembling more violently now, the little remaining colour in his cheeks draining away. "I'm sorry." John walks away, eyes fixed on Sherlock, until he's on the opposite side of the wall to his flatmate. "I didn't mean to…listen, I…" Sherlock heaves forward.  
>"John," he says weakly, and then John is hovering anxiously by his side. "I…" His hands grasp wildly, and John feels himself dragged to Sherlock's side. "Don't go."<br>"What?"  
>"Don't want to -" Sherlock's words are slurring into each other, and John can feel the man's heartbeat, fluttering like a hummingbird. Sweat cools against his skin, and Sherlock heaves again. John fumbles for his phone, trying desperately to stop Sherlock falling forwards. Three numbers later, and he's spelling out an address to a soft-spoken he can barely hear over the retching. He pulls Sherlock to his feet, into the bathroom, and sits him on the edge of the bath. "Sherlock…hey, hey Sherlock," he says, trying to ignore the disconcerting lack of focus in his eyes. "Stay with me, yeah? Because I need to kill you later, and you have to be around later for that to work." Sherlock mumbles something incoherent, and John finds himself all but holding the man up.<p>

By the time the paramedics reach the scene, Sherlock has passed out, and John is holding him awkwardly, trying to ensure he doesn't choke to death or land in his own filth. He recognises one of the drivers, who merely raises an eyebrow. John shrugs, and follows Sherlock into the back of the ambulance.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes three men to hold Sherlock down for long enough to sedate him and John isn't allowed in the room to help. He settles for texting Mycroft.

_Fix this. – JW_

Just over half an hour later John is allowed in. The detective is sleeping fitfully, curled up and looking surprisingly small in one of the hospital beds. "Is he alright?" John asks the nurse.  
>"We pumped his stomach and sedated him – he should be fine." Something strikes John, and he catches her by the elbow as she turns to leave.<br>"Have you had many cases like this?" She looks puzzled for a second, but John knows how to charm people.  
>"Yes – usually kids though, they don't deal with it quite as well as your…friend here." John notes the familiar pause, and smiles gratefully.<br>"Thank you." She leaves, and John sits down heavily on the chair at his bedside.  
>"You bloody idiot," he breathes.<p>

The day passes slowly, and John is aware that at some point he falls asleep. Sherlock wakes with the dawn, and John looks down at him, all anger forgotten. "How are you feeling?"  
>"Confused. What happened?"<br>"What do you remember?"  
>"You found me, and then I went to explain, and you cleaned me up, and then…" Sherlock rubs his temples, and frowns. "That's it."<br>"You had a bit of a reaction." Sherlock looks down at his arms, notes the finger-patterned bruises, and smiles bitterly.  
>"They sedated me, yes?" John nods.<br>"I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me in."  
>"No matter. For now, we must think on the case."<br>"The nurse said they've had numerous reactions like yours, mainly kids. I think you found the right drug."  
>"Strange," Sherlock notes, half under his breath. "Differing reactions, then."<br>"You thought it would induce violence or something?"  
>"It did. Of a sort." John looks puzzled, and Sherlock doesn't elaborate. "When will they let us leave, do you think?"<br>"Depends on whether you ask Mycroft for help, I suppose." Sherlock eyes meet John's, and there's a flicker of anger.  
>"Why would I need his help?"<br>"Because the only reason they let me in was thanks to him. Have some bloody sense for a change." Sherlock doesn't reply, but he also doesn't argue as John pulls out his phone.

Soon enough, Sherlock is discharged into John's care, and they hail a taxi home. Mrs Hudson fusses as they enter the door, but John manages to disentangle her from Sherlock by muttering something about 'still rather fragile'. Once they're out of earshot, Sherlock turns to him.  
>"Fragile?"<br>"It worked, didn't it?"  
>"Shouldn't you be at work, doctor?" John notes the awkwardness in Sherlock's voice, the way he's still standing, coat on, and his scarf firmly around his throat.<br>"That depends on what you're planning to do if I leave." Sherlock begins to unknot the scarf, and turns away, picking up the file from the table where John had left it.  
>"I'll be going through this." John closes his eyes for a second, weighing up the possibilities. He knows that if he stays home Sherlock will count it as a violation of trust, and he knows that that would be the worst thing to do right now.<br>"Okay. I'll try and get off early. There's a takeaway menu stuck to the fridge door, order something for lunch, and give me a call if anything – and I mean anything – happens."  
>"Right."<br>"Right." They stand in silence, neither meeting the others eyes. "I'll be off then."

John isn't even half way to work (his damn leg is playing up, what more did he expect?) when his phone rings. He answers it without looking at the caller, and is surprised to hear Mycroft's voice, tense and harsh, on the line.  
>"Go home now, John."<br>"What, I -" The line cuts off, and John rushes home, the pain in his leg ever-worsening.  
>Bursting through the door, eyes frantic, he sees Sherlock. Sitting on the couch, coat off, reading the file. He looks up, eyes filled with suspicion, and John swallows nervously.<br>"Why are you home?"  
>"I forgot my…um, I forgot my…coat." He takes it off the coat hook, and pockets the phone he didn't realise he was still holding. "I'll…I'll actually go now, yeah?" Sherlock gets up, his face unreadable, and the tension is broken by another ringtone – Sherlock's, this time. John listens, but doesn't catch very much. "…Yes? ...No, I believe you…Mm-hmm…I'll be there as soon as I can." He hangs up, hesitates for a second, and then turns back to John. "Case," he says, and John can't help but notice the way his hands are shoved deeply into his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. "Are you -"<br>"I said, a case, John. Come on."

They catch a taxi, the space between them awkward – close enough that John wants to reach out, to ask Sherlock what happened, but distant enough that he knows he can't. They stop outside a row of neat terraces, all pansy-filled front gardens and lace curtains in the windows. "Here?" John says, but Sherlock has already left. John pays, smiling wearily at the cabbie, and stumbles out of the car. He remembers leaving his cane at home, and frowns.  
>"Sherlock -" he starts, but Sherlock strides ahead to where Lestrade is waiting. By the time John catches up, they're starting for the house.<br>"They were going to peg it as a suicide," Lestrade states as they walk up the stairs. "But there's something off, I figured it might be useful." Sherlock smiles and John realises that for all the antagonism between them, he values the DI's work. They open the bedroom, and John doesn't know what to feel.

It's a teenagers room – a couple of half-naked actresses plastered to the wall, a ball of underwear on the floor, and a body draped off the bed, arms sliced open. Sherlock's eyes dart around the room, taking in where the blood fell. John can't help but think 'everywhere' – it's splattered up the walls, across the floor, over the desk.  
>"He was moving around whilst he did this," Sherlock says, and his voice is trembling enough that Lestrade looks at John, his face full of concern. He picks up the boy's forearms, leans over, and scours the body for any other evidence. "Look," he says, pointing at the boy's torso, coated in dried blood and bruises.<br>"It's like he's been attacked," Lestrade breathes, and Sherlock steps back, hands firmly in his pockets, shoulders tense, eyes ablaze.  
>"He has. By himself. Has anyone looked around the room yet?"<br>"No, I called you first." There's another quick smile, and then Sherlock's pulling open drawers, throwing clothes out of the wardrobes, muttering under his breath. John's phone rings suddenly, and he silences it, but not before Sherlock has whirled round and glared at him. Then he's back to turning the room upside, until he stands up, clutching a few small plastic bags in his hand. "These," he says, gesturing Lestrade over. "Recognise them?"  
>"Marijuana, cocaine…what's the last one?"<br>"Something new."  
>"And you think…"<br>"Yes."  
>"How?"<br>"I would suggest it creates a sort of berserker reaction. On most people, this violent urge will be turned outwards, particularly if you have 'enemies' – it's the perfect drug for a gang war. On others with a different temperament, the reaction may be turned inwards, and we get a case like this."  
>"Shit," Lestrade breathes, and goes to take the bag. Sherlock snatches it up, holding it on his eyelevel.<br>"Thankfully, Lestrade, you've got me."  
>"This isn't the time to beg for flattery for your 'genius'."<br>"I wasn't referring to that," he says simply. "I was referring to the fact that, as a man who was once a junkie, I can tell you the dealer behind this." Lestrade shakes his head, but takes the bag from Sherlock.  
>"And are you planning on telling?"<br>"His name's Moran." Lestrade's eyes widen, and he swears violently.  
>"We captured him, he's been in jail, he can't -"<br>"You're babbling, Lestrade. I advise you to check your records, and I assure you they'll confirm that he is not only out of jail, but back dealing. I suggest you get as many of your men on the case as possible." And with that, Sherlock leaves.

Lestrade looks at John, and John makes a mental note to buy him a pint. Or two. Or three. The man deserves it.  
>"Is he alright?"<br>"What, Sherlock? Yeah," John says, but Lestrade just raises his eyebrows. John sighs.  
>"We – he ended up in hospital yesterday, they probably shouldn't have let him out." Lestrade runs a hand over the back of his neck, and John shrugs.<br>"Look after yourself, John,"  
>"Yeah, you too." He turns and limps down the stairs, hoping Sherlock's still waiting outside.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

_Here's a short chapter, just for those of you who keep asking for updates. Thank you for all the lovely reviews - I will reply to you all once I've got the last three essays of my university term done, and then this fic will update faster too!_

* * *

><p>John steps out of the doorway to find Sherlock leaning on a gatepost, staring across the street. He steps towards him, and places his hand on the small of his back. Sherlock jumps slightly, but doesn't move. "Sherlock?" John asks, leaning round to catch a glimpse of his face. The bags under his eyes look like bruises, and John pulls back, shifting in front of him, his hand moving to under the crook of his flatmate's elbow. Sherlock looks at him, and shakes his head slightly. "If you ask me one more time if I'm alright, I will put an extra head in the fridge just for you."<br>"If you'd just answer I'd let you." John watches his eyes widen, and wonders about the last time someone who wasn't Mycroft worried for him.  
>"John, I am fine." They hear the sound of a car parking further down the street, and with a glance back to the house, decide it best to leave. John limps at Sherlock's side in awkward silence for a while.<p>

"Sherlock, that drug…"  
>"Yes?"<br>"You said it could induce violent feelings…inwards, right?"  
>"I didn't hurt myself John, if that's what you're wondering."<br>"Then…what?"  
>"I am aware of when it is the influence of a drug affecting my thoughts, and I am rather well trained in ignoring that."<br>"Oh." There's another silence, this one more awkward than the last.  
>"But…" Sherlock stops, and suddenly grabs John by his shoulders.<br>"What is it you're really asking, John?" John stares resolutely at the floor, and in the pause that follows there's the unmistakeable sound of his phone informing him he's received a text message. Neither man moves, but John looks up, and sighs, trying to put things as simply and clearly as he can.  
>"I was asking whether these cases are bothering you due to your childhood, and whether the drug strengthened that." Sherlock's hands drop, one to his pocket, the other to John's, and he pulls away with John's phone.<br>"Mycroft…" he hisses, scrolling through text messages and missed calls. "You went and talked to Mycroft!"  
>"I – yes." Sherlock stares, slack-jawed, and if the situation weren't so serious, John would laugh.<br>"Why…why would you do that?"  
>"I had to know, Sherlock."<br>"Why? So you could pity me like he does? I don't need your pity! I don't need his!" Sherlock is pacing now, hands in his hair, tugging his sleeves, pocketing and then looking once more at the phone.  
>"No, so…" he reaches out, and Sherlock flinches away.<br>"Don't touch me!" he says instinctively, and then a look of horror dawns on his face. "He told you! That's why – that's…" His hands are tugging more violently at his hair now and his breathing frantic. "Stupid!" he shouts, and John doesn't know what to do. "That's the only reason – I thought – oh, how did I not notice this before? This is why you…"  
>"Sherlock," John says, trying to keep his voice steady.<br>"What did he tell you then? Go on – no, wait; I'll deduce it for you, shall I? Did he tell you how I was bullied throughout school? How I had just one friend at university? How I've never had a source of affection past my mother?" Sherlock's voice is harsh, and John forces himself to keep staring up at him, to keep his eyes locked on that tired face, those cold eyes. He nods, not trusting himself to say something reasonable.  
>"Mycroft knows <em>nothing<em>," Sherlock spits. "I would have though you would ask me first." And that's all John can take without wanting to snap back – so he does.  
>"And get what? Waved away? Told it's unimportant?"<br>"It is!"  
>"Not to me!"<br>"Why should it matter what my life was like before I met you?"  
>"Because I'm your friend, Sherlock!" John shouts, and the two men stare at each other, ignoring the stares of those passing by. Sherlock's eyes soften slightly, a hint of confusion sparking in their depths.<br>"What?"  
>"I'm your friend, Sherlock, and heaven knows I worry about you more than can possibly be healthy. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you – you take bloody stupid amounts of drugs that we don't even know the name of, and you flinch whenever someone who isn't me or Mrs Hudson comes too near you. What was I meant to do?" Sherlock looks away, and then strides ahead.<p>

John watches him go.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been three hours since John took a taxi back to Baker Street, three and a half since Sherlock walked away. His mind races – what if he doesn't come back? What if he just leaves? What if he's been kidnapped? He paces, making cups of tea that grow cold as he limps around the flat, occasionally checking his phone.

_Sherlock, come home. – JW_

_Sherlock? – JW_

_Something dangerous happened! – JW_

_Yeah, I know that was pathetic. - JW_

_I'll let you put another head in the fridge? - JW_

_Please come back. – JW_

His leg begins to ache from the pacing, so he sits down and opens his laptop. Might as well make himself useful then. He recognises the name from somewhere, so he types "Moran" into the search bar. A comedian, a building company, a few cities here and there – nothing useful. "Moran drugs arrest", he types, and the results are much more satisfactory. The articles aren't detailed, but they tell him enough. Moran was dishonourably discharged from the army around four years ago, and John recalls hearing the name mentioned a couple of times. He sold drugs, out on the front lines, sourced them from locals. It wasn't that that brought the discharge on – it was the torture he'd inflict on the locals who didn't satisfy him. John swallows nervously, and doesn't hear the front door open and click shut. There's a cough from the top of the stairs, and he looks up to see Sherlock staring resolutely on the floor.  
>"I, uh…"<br>John expects himself to be angry, but all he can feel is relief that the detective is back in one piece.  
>"It's fine. You could reply to my texts next time, yeah?" Sherlock mumbles something, before flinging himself down onto the sofa. "Find anything interesting out?"<br>"I've got a few people tracking him." John looks away from the screen, eyes taking in every detail – the way Sherlock is facing the back of the couch, coat pulled up tight around the collar, but is interrupted by his phone. He pulls it out, and opens a text from Mycroft.

_John, I need to speak to you. – MH _

He glances across to Sherlock, and back to the phone.  
>"Well?" Sherlock says, and John can here the underlying anger in his voice.<br>"Well what?"  
>"I assume it's Mycroft wanting to speak to you." John sighs, and turns off the phone, knowing Sherlock will recognise the sound. His assumption is confirmed by Sherlock pulling himself up into a sitting position, feet balancing precariously on the edge of the cushion. John smiles apologetically, not really sure what to do, and Sherlock frowns.<br>"You want to ask me about something." John's almost tempted to argue, but ends up pinching the bridge of his nose instead.  
>"Yeah." There's a long silence, neither meeting the others eyes. "Look," John starts. "There's something wrong with this case, I know it, and you know it, and it'll make things a damn sight easier if I know what's going on with you. What is it?"<br>"Moran."  
>"Moran what?"<br>"I don't want you to meet him." Sherlock says, and John stares, open-mouthed.  
>"What?"<br>"He's a soldier. Ex-solider. Like you."  
>"And?" Sherlock tugs at the end of his sleeves, and John leans forwards. "And…?"<br>"You wanted to see more bodies, more danger? So did he. Only he started a war to do so."  
>"What?"<br>"This gang war, John, it's his. He supplies it, keeps it's front lines stocked with drugs and guns, teaches them…" Sherlock trails off, hands running through his hair, and John fills in the blank from the articles.  
>"Torture." Sherlock nods. "Was he your dealer?"<br>"The first."  
>"Oh."<br>"He wasn't established then. Neither was Mycroft to stop him. People started to ask questions, so he joined the army and left the country. As soon as he was discharged, Mycroft had him arrested."  
>"When did he get out?"<br>"Six months ago."  
>"How long was he your dealer for?" Sherlock ignores the question, standing up to take his coat off and pace furiously.<br>"He's had six months, and it's just starting to show. He might as well have half of London under his control by now." John doesn't speak, just stares at the picture on his screen. It's a man, slightly older than Sherlock with sandy blonde hair and a smile that John recognises – it's the smile of a man who's seen his world blown apart, and enjoyed it. He's met men with that smile, John remembers. He's suddenly aware of Sherlock looming over him, looking at the screen.  
>"I didn't want you to meet him." Sherlock says suddenly, and then he steps back, looking everywhere but at John. John closes the laptop, and stands up, stepping as near to Sherlock as he can without making the man uncomfortable.<br>"Look," says John. "If you can go off alone to a pool at night to meet Mor – a psychopath, then I can deal with an off-the-rails ex-solider." They stand, inches apart, John staring up, face full of bravery and defiance. It's Sherlock who steps back, hands in his hair once more. "You don't…" He sighs, and turns back. "You're not going to back down, are you?"  
>"Great deduction there, Sherlock. No, really. I don't know how you do it." This wins a smile – or at least, a twitch of the lips upwards – and John folds his arms, trying to bite down his own grin.<br>"Is the game afoot then?" The twitch becomes a smirk, and Sherlock stops fidgeting.  
>"Why yes, John, I do believe it is." There's something in Sherlock's voice that tells John he's missing something, but Sherlock's pacing, deductions flying from his lips and John doesn't want this moment to end.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock hears back from his 'contacts' sooner than he expects – as they're walking to Scotland Yard they're approached by a young teenage boy.  
>"'Ere, Holmes," he says, handing him a small bag, "This the one you were looking for?"<br>"Yes, thank you," Sherlock says, pocketing it before John can protest. "Whereabouts did you find him?"  
>"Didn't, met one of 'is associates. They reckon 'e don't like to be out anywhere 'e can be seen these days."<br>"Of course," says Sherlock, "We both know you know more than that."  
>"Only what I've 'eard. We reckon 'e must've a warehouse, probably in one of the industrial estates. Probably somewhere near the Thames, so's 'e can get 'is stuff in. Me brother was gonna work it out – we were gonna break in and get some of 'is stuff to sell ourselves." John goes to speak, but Sherlock presses a firm hand on his shoulder.<br>"Thank you, Joseph," he says, and presses a few notes into the boys hand. "Do give my best wishes to your mother for me."  
>"Will do!" Joseph says with a grin, before vanishing into one of the alleys.<br>"Sherlock!" John exclaims.  
>"He's useful," Sherlock says, as though that explains everything, "And since his mother owes me for getting her out of a benefit fraud case, loyal." He strides ahead, John's cane clicking along behind him.<p>

Lestrade greets them at the Yard, leading them to his office, and John clasps him on the shoulder. "You look like you've not slept in days," he comments, knowing any attempts at sympathy would just be met with a feigned ignorance.  
>"So do you."<br>"Made any progress on Moran?" Sherlock asks.  
>"Some," he replies, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "We're not sure why he's loose – must've bribed someone in the system."<br>"Location?" Lestrade draws out his map of London, points to a couple of possible areas, and Sherlock takes the pen and crosses a few out. "It'll be an industrial estate, he's running this battlefield."  
>"What?"<br>"He's not just their dealer, Lestrade; he's their weapons specialist and advisor too. Bring him in and…"  
>"And the flow stops, at least for a while."<br>"Exactly."  
>"Bloody hell, Sherlock, this is big." Sherlock nods, and Lestrade heads out of the office to fill the rest of the team in.<br>"John", Sherlock asks suddenly.  
>"Hmm?"<br>"Why the cane?"  
>"Leg's been playing up, must be the weather." Sherlock says nothing, only stares at him with a curious expression that John hasn't seen before. "Anyway, I know you've already figured out where he is."<br>"Not yet," Sherlock says, and John watches him as he pours over the maps and the bag Joseph brought him. The man is electric, John recalls thinking on meeting him, and the same image strikes him now – he's a genius, all brilliant deductions and conclusions, and John can't help but feel the swell of admiration in his chest. But there's something else there – the familiar grip of fear at a too familiar word.  
>"What did you say?"<br>"Which part?"  
>"Last sentence."<br>"…Considering the financial situation he'd be in on getting out of prison, he's probably got a sponsor – it wouldn't surprise me to find Moriarty in there someone, he's got a hand in everything these days?"  
>"Yeah. That one." John can feel his hand tremble slightly, and closes his eyes for a few seconds, consciously slowing his breathing.<br>"John?" He opens his eyes to find Sherlock stood directly in front of him, and he pulls backwards, almost tripping over the desk behind him. For a split second, Sherlock looks confused, as though he's going to ask him something, but then Lestrade walks in, looks between the two men and decides to ignore whatever he notices. "So, Sherlock."  
>"It's between these three estates – I can't be any more specific without having visited them." He gestures to the map, and Lestrade nods.<br>"Right then, me and Donovan'll head to one, Anderson and a team to another, and you and John to the last."  
>"No!" Sherlock shouts, and it's like the past few days never happened – his hands are tugging at his sleeves with trembling fingers before returning to pull his curls away from his head. "No, it's too dangerous – you need to send in full teams to each, armed if you can help it."<br>"We'll just be doing a recon – not attempting to enter the building," Lestrade says, eyes fixed on John.  
>"It's…you can't! I won't allow it."<br>"I'm in charge here," Lestrade says, stepping towards Sherlock. John sees the way Sherlock's whole body seems to change direction, and decides it's time to get involved.  
>"Lestrade," he says, trying to hold his voice steady. "We have reason to believe that…" He wavers, feels the panic swarming behind his eyes, hear the flames and the water and suddenly he knows they're both staring at him, both of them, and he can't get the word out and why can't he say it, it's just a word, it doesn't mean he'll… "We have reason to believe Moriarty might be involved in this," he stammers out, and everything changes. Sherlock's storming out of the door, Lestrade's pulling out his phone, everyone seems to be flocking to the door of the office and all John can think about is this damn leg of his, and how it won't work, and how he can't move, can't get home. Then there's a hand on his back, a voice in his ear. "Come on," it says, and John is aware it's Sally, leading him out of the office, into a chair, and finally, the blood rush in his ears stops.<p>

"Sorry," he says, staring at the floor.  
>"I told you that freak'd be bad for you, didn't I?" He looks up, and she falls silent.<br>"It's not him," John says, every word measured and deliberate. "It's the case. He's…do you realise, Sally, what he does for you?" She looks away, and sighs.  
>"We do, John, you know that. But he's difficult. Hell, it's all difficult. And when he's there, all…brilliance and deductions and <em>enthusiasm<em>, it's just wrong. You understand?" And John does. He knows how it feels to admire something that disturbs you – he'd felt it long before meeting Sherlock, when he'd marvelled at the cold steel in the desert, the way the war worked, the way men's minds shouldn't have been able to be so fantastically cruel. Sherlock's mind is beautiful, he knows that, but it's deadly. For every case solved, there's that curiosity, that unrestrained excitement that there's something for him to do. And it's there, John realises. That's why everything seems off. That's what's been missing. Sherlock hasn't been excited over this case. Interested, yes, fascinated, yes. But excited? "Excuse me, Sally, I've got to catch him up."  
>"Look after yourself, John," she calls after him, and John pretends not to hear. He's been to war-zones before. Sherlock hasn't.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock's waiting just outside with a cigarette between his lips. "I thought you'd have headed back to Baker Street."  
>"You don't have any money for a taxi," Sherlock notes, looking pointedly at John's leg. John sighs, and leans against the wall next him.<br>"No patches?"  
>"Not on me, and the shop over the road stock my favourite brand."<br>"Which would be?" Sherlock looks at him with a face that John is quickly learning to categorise as his dealing-with-confusing-offers-of-friendship face.  
>"Not going to tell me I'm killing myself slowly then?"<br>"I figure we'll both die before it comes to that." Sherlock steps away from the wall and stubs out his cigarette, and before he can respond, Scotland Yard goes dark. John barely has time to register the faint wail of an alarm before he's running inside after the detective.

Sherlock pushes through the crowds, bounding towards Lestrade's office, and is greeted by an eerie silence. "What's going on?" Lestrade looks up at him, and as he goes to speak, the phone rings. Sherlock picks it up, pushing the speaker button. John arrives seconds later, and takes in the scene – Lestrade, eyes fixed on Sherlock, waiting for some sound from the phone, Sally clinging tightly to Anderson, and two other officers he has no names for watching silently.  
>"Hello, Sherlock," says a voice.<br>"Moran, I assume," Sherlock replies coolly, and John stares. He's heard voices like that before.  
>"Obviously. Now, if you don't mind, I was hoping to speak to our dearest D.I." Lestrade coughs, and stands up.<br>"That would be me."  
>"That would be me, <em>sir.<em>" The voice says, and John bites back a curse.  
>"Sir," Lestrade adds bitterly, staring straight at John.<br>"Better. Now, I hope this little show has taught you something."  
>"That you know how to work a light switch?"<br>"No, detective inspector, that London is _mine_." John can only watch as the two officers begin to try and trace the source of the call, desperately wishing he could tell them to stop. He knows this man. In all of four sentences, John knows this man more than any one else in this room could, and he knows what's coming.  
>"I wouldn't try to trace me, if I were you. Otherwise you might have some more battle scars to deal with." John looks away, scouring the street outside the window behind Lestrade, taking in every minute detail.<br>"Battle scars?"  
>"Haven't you heard? Oh, I suppose with the Yard on lockdown, news won't have reached you yet. Ever so inefficient." Lestrade gestures at the four officers, and they nod, before leaving the room as quietly as possible. "You see, Lestrade, two community police officers have just been shot down by snipers in James Park. A retired officer has just been found, hanging from the ceiling of his single bedroom apartment. One of your recent trainees has just shot his room-mate. Can't you see? This is war. This is <em>my<em> war. And if you try to end it, your and your pathetic police force will just be a few more casualties. Do you understand me?" Lestrade says nothing, just looks at Sherlock, who is muttering things under his breath.  
>"I said, do you understand me?"<br>"Yes," Lestrade breathes.  
>"Good. Now…" And then John has grabbed his wrist, and is pulling him out the door, pushing Sherlock's slim form in front of him. They practically fall down the stairs, and as they reach the exit, there's an explosion.<br>"Bloody hell," Lestrade says, hands on his knees and gasping for air. Sherlock just stares, wild-eyed, as John checks the area.  
>"Grenade. Don't worry, we're clear. Come on, get moving." He directs them away from the scene, eventually leading them into a back alley. "Right," he says, and then the adrenaline stops and he's aware they're staring and his leg is hurting, and where's his cane, why hasn't he got – no. "Right," he says, and if either man noticed the brief stumble, they pretend to pay no attention. "Lestrade, where did you send Anderson and Donovan?"<br>"To check his claims."  
>"The retired officer will be Superintendent McDonnell," Sherlock's states, and Lestrade leans back against the wall, his face pale.<br>"Did you send anyone after Moran?" John asks urgently  
>"No?"<br>"Good. Don't."  
>"Christ, John. War. The man's mad." There's the flare of a match, and the familiar smell of tobacco wafts in the air.<br>"Get in touch with anyone currently involved in any gang-war cases, and tell them to pull back. Call me when you're done." And with that, Sherlock leaves. John looks across at the D.I, who shakes his head.  
>"I'm fine, go on."<p>

They arrive back at Baker Street, and John is surprised when Sherlock takes his elbow and helps him up the stairs. "Thanks," he says gratefully, and a small smile graces the man's lips. Then he's bounding across the room, a frantic blur of motion, before returning with a bundle of takeaway menus. "Chinese?" he says, and John frowns.  
>"The case?"<br>"If I move now, anyone on the case is at risk. It's far less messy to wait, and, though I may be able to go without food for extended periods of time, I am aware you cannot. Chinese?"  
>"Sure." As Sherlock dials the number, John realises what this is. This is Sherlock's way of trying to fix him, trying to take his mind off the Mor – that – no, Moriarty issue. As if that wasn't strange enough, once he's ordered their usual, Sherlock helps John over to the couch, and sits beside him. There's a distance between them, but as the waves of awful television wash over him, John starts to think that maybe talking to Mycroft worked out for the best after all.<p>

Of course, John thinks, any hopes that things would be that easy are shattered as he wakes up a few hours later to an empty flat.


	10. Chapter 10

John stumbles as he gets off the couch, catches his shins on the coffee table, and almost blinds himself when opening the curtains. Of course, he thinks, that was why he was being so…so bloody human last night! Because he knew he was going to go off and do something stupid. He finds his phone, and with bleary eyes, finds Mycroft's number.  
>"Oi," he snaps as soon as the phone is answered. "Where the hell is Sherlock?" There's a pause, so minute that anyone who hadn't lived with a Holmes wouldn't catch it, and then. "I'll check."<br>"You didn't know he was gone, did you?"  
>"No, John, I didn't. I've been rather busy." There's an underlying hint of tension in Mycroft's voice, and John sits down, his leg threatening to crumple beneath him.<br>"Moran," he says simply, but there's no sound on the other end. He waits, and the phone is eventually picked up again. "Where the -"  
>"John?" says a woman's voice.<br>"Anthea?"  
>"Uh…yes."<br>"Where's Mycroft?"  
>"On his way."<br>"What?"  
>"Wait outside." There's a click, and then John's aware that she's disconnected. He fumbles for some fresh clothes and limps down the stairs, all too aware that he never did go back for his cane.<p>

It seems like an eternity before a black car screeches to a halt and the door is thrown open. "In. Now." John obeys, unthinkingly, and grips the seat as the driver speeds away.  
>"What the hell is going on?"<br>"Mole," Mycroft says, and John gapes. "Any camera that would have been following Sherlock disconnected, various files deleted, and my office was ransacked."  
>"Who?"<br>"One of Moriarty's men, I'd assume. Grace is working through things as best she can."  
>"Grace?" There's a momentary frown, then a smile.<br>"Anthea."  
>"Oh."<br>"John, this is important." John goes to make a snide comment, but then he realises that Mycroft's tie is ever so slightly off-centre and the knot slightly too tight. By anyone else's standards, that's the equivalent of screaming in panic. "What do you know about Moran?"  
>"Ex-army, misses the war, Sherlock's first dealer, working with Moriarty, access to decent weaponry and probably has half of London fearing him," John reels off, all precision and efficiency.<br>"Do you think you could beat him?"  
>"Me?"<br>"Yes, John, you. Because I'm assuming he's got Sherlock, and you're our next best bet." John pauses, breathes deeply, and steadies himself.  
>"Get me to Lestrade."<p>

The car pulls up outside Scotland Yard, and Mycroft goes to help John out of the car. To his own surprise, he manages it, and Mycroft's faint smile doesn't slip past him. "If this goes wrong, promise me Lestrade won't get into any trouble over it."  
>"It won't." John glares, and Mycroft nods slightly. "He won't." Lips set into a hard line, John enters the darkened building.<br>Lestrade is waiting for him in the hallway. "John?"  
>"Sherlock went to investigate and didn't come back." There's a moment of understanding between them, and Lestrade nods.<br>"Whatever you need."  
>"Sherlock picked three potential estates – Dockley Road, Creeksmouth and the Isleworth Clock Tower Estate. He'll have gone to Creeksmouth, it's near an estuary, the perfect place to stash weaponry and drugs."<br>"So we -"  
>"Moran will have taken him to Dockley."<br>"John, how can you -"  
>"Sherlock's been treating him like a criminal."<br>"He is?"  
>"But he's not thinking like one. He's thinking like a solider – you heard him, he's treating this like a war. Creeksmouth is too open – not enough cover. He'll be at Dockley, it's near enough to the river that he can use it, without the open spaces." Lestrade goes to question him, but John is no longer the quiet, ordinary man he's used to – his face is set, all hard edges and determination.<br>"What do you want me to do?"  
>"I'll need an armed team – anything you can get your hands on at short notice. They'll stage an attack on Creeksmouth, so clear the area as best you can. I'll head to Dockley Road."<br>"Alone?"  
>"Yes. If he thinks we've found him, he'll shoot Sherlock, no questions asked."<br>"But Moriarty - "  
>"Doesn't want him dead, I know. But Moran won't listen to orders if he thinks he's threatened. Trust me. He'll shoot, and run. I want you to have a team waiting at Isleworth, in case something goes wrong." Lestrade frowns, but agrees.<br>"John, are you -"  
>"Be ready to make a move in three hours."<p>

John paces as Lestrade rings various stations, calling in favours he's been building up since he joined the Force.

"You owe me for that time I missed my holiday for you…"  
>"…that time I went to court for you…"<br>"…went against orders because I knew you were onto something…"  
>"…didn't fire you because I trusted it was an honest mistake…"<br>"…was late to my mate's funeral…"  
>"…put my job on the line for…"<p>

He marvels at the depth of his influence, at the dedication he hears in the reasons he gives, and once again, makes note to buy the man as many drinks as he wants. "I've got them," Lestrade says when he finally hangs up. "Might not be the most efficient or well-prepared team I'll ever have, but they're willing, ready and if you're right – and you bloody well best be – it'll work."  
>"Thank you," John says, clapping a hand to Lestrade's shoulder. "You don't get nearly enough thanks for this job." Lestrade smiles wryly, and nods.<br>"Neither do you. John, what are you planning?"  
>"Me? I'm planning to break into an industrial estate, find Moran, shoot the bastard in the head, and get away with my flatmate. Nothing to it."<br>"You really think you can do it?"  
>"I think I have to try."<br>"You're…" Lestrade shakes his head. "He's lucky to have you."  
>"Try telling him that," John says. "The idiot shouldn't have left me behind, or I wouldn't have to break him out of there."<br>"Sherlock's not good at caring, John. He thought he'd be keeping you safe." John sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  
>"I know. Doesn't stop him being an idiot though." He looks at his watch, and frowns. "I best start making my way there." Lestrade mock-salutes and John can't help but grin. "Pub when this is all over?"<br>"Like there was another option."  
>"Good luck."<br>"You too."


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry for leaving you on that cliffhanger for so long! I had a week without internet, and then I started a new job. But, to make up for it, here's an extra long chapter. Thanks to everyone who has been keeping up with this for so long, it makes me very, very happy.**

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><p>The door clicks softly behind him as he strides up the seventeen steps to their flat. He's methodical in preparation – basic first aid kit attached to his belt, dark clothing, and, though there's a twinge of worry, gun in the waistband of his jeans. He leaves within minutes of arriving, and makes his way across town. They'll just be kids, he thinks, his hand twitching repeatedly towards the weapon. Moran's not big enough to have much security beyond the gangs, and Moriarty wouldn't risk being linked directly to a movement like this, he's sure. Could he shoot a teenager? John wonders. If it came to it, he knows he could. Age doesn't matter when they're trying to kill you. He looks down, expecting his hands to be trembling, but they're perfectly steady. The taxi driver looks at him strangely as he chokes back a laugh. Some would call it nerves, but his time with the detective has shown him otherwise. For all he wishes it wasn't the case, he understands Moran. His thoughts are interrupted as they hit traffic, and John instantly leaps up, pushes some notes through the window, and makes his way on foot. His phone buzzes. Lestrade.<p>

_In position. Waiting for you._

John types quickly, eyes darting everywhere, planning dozens of escape routes.

_Just finding a spot._

He finds it, eventually, the perfect hiding place, within sprinting distance of the building. There's a twitch in his fingers, a moment of quiet fear as he sees the guards – a bunch of overly confident kids.

_Ready._

Sure enough, within ten minutes there's panic – teenagers with awkwardly sized guns, kitchen knives and glassy eyes hopping into trucks and cheap second hand cars.

_Incoming._

_Good luck, John. Don't die._

_Won't do. Wouldn't give you the paperwork._

He turns the phone off then, and pulls out his gun. He's not sure of where Sherlock is – the building plans they had were of little use, the warehouse being full of equally sized rooms, with little to differentiate them. An idea occurs to him, and he smiles wryly. Sherlock'll be the death of him, if John doesn't kill him first. And so John sprints towards the warehouse and charges straight in, gun blazing like an amateur. "Where is he?" he shouts, trying to add an edge of panic to his voice. "Where's Sherlock?"

It takes less than thirty seconds for him to be disarmed, restrained, and dragged through the building by three teenage boys. He finds himself worrying at his bottom lip to prevent the smile forming. Predictable.

They force him into a decent size room, and any confidence John felt filling his veins dissipates almost instantly. Sherlock is bound to a chair, gagged, his skin flushed and his eyes wild. "Sherlock!" he gaps out, the edge no longer forced. There's a laugh, short and barking, and Moran wheels round. He's taller than John, sandy blonde hair falling into eyes that dart around the room constantly. Paranoid, John notes. Of course. He forces a sneer onto his own lips. "You won't win," he says, aware he sounds like a cliché from one of his much-loved action films.  
>"Oh, John, I don't care if I win. You've seen London. It doesn't matter who comes out on top – its war." He says the word like it's holy, and John just raises an eyebrow, challenging the man to keep talking. Surely he's aware of the same clichés John is? That you never, ever gloat?<br>"Not that you'd understand. Honourable, were you? Cowardly, is more like it. I've seen that limp. Pathetic." John's thoughts race, taking in the room. Sherlock, in the chair in the centre. One boy on either side, one behind him – the one on the left younger, thinner, his grip less confident. Six others leaning against various walls. A table…Moran laughs again, stands next to it, caressing the edge like a lover. Sherlock moans through the gag, and John's eyes flick back to him for a second. "What did Sherlock tell you about me, John Watson?" John stays silent, and Moran picks out a long syringe.  
>"He's already had a dosage or two to get him ready for this – pure, of course, we don't want him passing out during our fun." He places the syringe back, picking up a long, thin blade.<br>"I bet he told you I was his dealer." John says nothing, and Sherlock bites at the cloth in his mouth. "I was, of course, but Sherlock, oh, Sherlock was special." He leans in, drawing the blade over the exposed flesh of Sherlock's collarbone. "So very _loyal_. The perfect client. Until his brother found out." In seconds, Moran has replaced the blade, taken out a strip of leather, and slashed it down between the detective's shoulder blades. Sherlock's back arches, and John can hear the effort it takes him not to scream.  
>"Did he ever tell you?" This time it's a smaller blade, nicking ever so slightly under his eye, as though Moran wants to show John the scope of what he can do as quickly as he can. "Answer me!" Instantly, it's the voice of a leader, of a solider, and John hates this man more than he thought was possible.<br>"No," he says, eyes fixed on Sherlock. "He didn't." His flatmate is shaking now, trying desperately to move backwards, looking everywhere except at John.  
>"He trusted me, you know. We were…" he leans in, runs a finger down the curve of the man's cheek, ignoring the flinch that follows. "Well, we were the closest the freak ever had to a friend. And then the arrests started. And it all led back to him." He catches Sherlock's chin, forces him to look at John, and then pulls the gag from his mouth. "Why don't you tell him, Sherlock? Tell him what I did to you." Sherlock's ragged breath seems deafeningly loud, and John catches a familiar look on his face. He's scared – scared that John will pity him, or hate him, or blame him. "You don't have to," John whispers, and Moran laughs.<br>"Doesn't he? Well then." He turns back for a moment, humming something tuneless as he picks out a scalpel from the table. Then, slowly, he unbuttons Sherlock's shirt. "You've never seen the man shirtless, have you?" The last button gone, he pulls it away, and John feels sick. The pale skin is coated in paler, slightly raised lines and circles – burns and old scars forming an intricate lacework over most of his torso. It stops at the shoulder and below the neckline of an ordinary shirt, and Moran strokes his thumb against a particularly large scar across his ribs. "Oh, but I've improved since then. Afghanistan was particularly educational. Maybe I'll give John a practical demonstration of the fun we had. I bet he'd enjoy it, don't you?" Sherlock tries to croak out a response, but then Moran is there, the cloth being thrust violently into his mouth, choking him. John doesn't struggle, hoping desperately that he's worked the situation out correctly. Sherlock's eyes begin to roll back, and Moran pulls the cloth free. "You see John, Sherlock was a tragedy when I met him. Painfully loyal from the first time I treated him like a person." There's another, long silence, and then he takes hold of one of Sherlock's hands. There's a sickening crack, and a strangled cry, followed by two more. John waits, trying to avoid the waves of nausea he can feel thrumming through him. Moran smiles, and returns to his table, this time picking up a blade no longer than his little finger. "Remember this?" Sherlock stops struggling, and goes perfectly still, his eyes locked on the blade, and John prays to anything that would listen that he's right.

It's 17 incisions later when the moment he's waiting for arrives. The youngest boy – the one of the left – loosens his grip, stepping backwards slightly in horror, and John moves. He barges his shoulder into him, catches his ankles against his own, before moving smoothly towards the other, pulling himself free as his fist collides with the boy's jaw. Then he's moving forwards, kicking the third boy away from his legs as he tackles him. As soon as he's clear, he grapples Moran to the ground. There's a sharp pain in shoulder, but it's the shoulder that has pained him ever since that fateful day in the desert, and he shrugs it off. He pins the man to the ground – he's probably taller than him, stronger, and far more sadistic but John is _angry_. He feels the man's nose break under his fist, feels his own lip burst and feels hands tearing at him. He flips onto his back, giving Moran the upper hand but blocking the other gang members from him as best he can. There's shouting, shots, blood and bone, and then the hands stop, the room goes quiet, and it's John and Moran, the latter bloodied and unable to speak. "You…" John says, and his voice is calm. "You don't deserve -" There's the click of metal on concrete, and a quiet cough.  
>"I would appreciate him being alive, John." John stands up, spits and glares across the room.<br>"You didn't tell me, you bastard! You didn't tell me!"  
>"I didn't know," Mycroft says, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's torso, and then John is beside him, cutting the ropes at his wrists and kneeling in front of him, the world forgotten.<br>"Sherlock…" He places a hand on the man's knee, and he practically leaps backwards. "Sherlock, I need to check you're alright. Let me check you're okay. I need to just check." They stare at each other, and there's the slightest twitch of agreement. John pats him down, gently and avoiding the major wounds. He can feel the way Sherlock pulls away from him, and tries to avoid making eye contact. "Just a broken ankle," he says as he finishes, removing his hands to rest on his own legs. Sherlock finally meets his eyes, and John recognises them – distant and lost. He swears loudly, and then suddenly there are men in bright yellow jackets swarming, and Sherlock is trying desperately to run, his ankle crumpling beneath him, and John is barging through until he ends up between Sherlock and Mycroft. He stares into the man's face, ignoring the fact that he _is _the British government, that he could have him killed with nothing more than a text, and shoves him backwards. "You. You do not get to swarm in and help him now. You get these men away. You get me a car, a driver, and you get us home."  
>"But…"<br>"Do you hear me, Mycroft?" There's a moment of tension, and the taller man acquiesces. The room begins to empty, and Sherlock sinks against a wall, pulling his limbs against himself. John sits in front of him, a metre apart, and wipes the blood from his lip.  
>"I'm sorry," he says, and Sherlock looks up at him in confusion. "For not asking you about him." There's a sound that could feasibly be a whimper, and John looks more closely at the man. "Hey," he whispers, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. "I know you can avoid letting them control you – the drugs. You told me, right? I know you can push through whatever this is making you think..." They sit there for another minute or two, John whispering whatever encouragement he can think of before edging forward, and leaning against the wall next to him. As expected, he feels long fingers encase his wrist, and he slides slightly from the grip. There's a moment of panic in Sherlock's eyes, but John locks his fingers through the detectives, and they sit, silent, waiting for Mycroft's car to arrive.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

The drive home seems to take forever, and Sherlock grows steadily paler as the crash begins. His fingers remain laced through John's, though he stares out of the window for most of the journey. They have to pull over a few times for him to vomit, but John is glad that the sadist in Moran clearly wanted him to suffer by his hand, not the work of some drug. "Sherlock?" John asks tentatively. "When you say you can keep the thoughts the drug brings out under control, what thoughts are they?" Sherlock looks straight at the floor then, his fingers digging into John's knuckles. "I don't want to think about them, John. I don't…just…"  
>"Bit not good?"<br>"Yeah," Sherlock sounds relieved, so John doesn't push it. When they reach Baker Street, John helps him out, ensuring he puts no weight whatsoever on his foot, and tells the driver to call back with enough supplies for John to temporarily keep his ankle from getting worse. "You'll have to get this looked at tomorrow, I can't do much here," he says, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Don't worry, I'll come with you." They make it up the stairs, and John helps Sherlock lie on the couch, before returning to the door to wait for the driver.

Soon enough, Sherlock's ankle is bandaged up, and he's staring at the ceiling. John curls up in his armchair, a mug of tea in his still-steady hands. "John," Sherlock croaks after an hour or two, and John turns to face him.  
>"Feeling better?" His flatmate swallows, and John fetches a glass of water. "Here. Drink this." He does, all the time refusing to meet John's gaze. John returns to his chair, and time passes to the sound of London.<p>

"Sherlock," John says, around the time he thinks he'll be through the worst. "You could have told me." It's slight, the flinch that happens, but it's there, and John presses his palms to his eyes. He's not Sherlock, but he knows enough about the man to understand why he didn't.  
>"I don't pity you, Sherlock."<br>"What?"  
>"I said, I don't pity you." After a moment's thought, he adds, "Or think less of you."<br>"And why not? I was stupid – loyal! I trusted him. I was such an idiot!" John bites his lip, but doesn't say anything. "John, this is…" Sherlock stops, and turns away, but John already knows what he was going to say.  
>"This is why you don't get close to people, right?" There's a grunt, potentially of agreement, so he continues. "I'm not him, Sherlock. I could never be him."<br>"He was the first person since my mother to…to hug me," he says suddenly, and what should sound pathetic sounds heartbreaking. "The first person who didn't call me 'freak'. He…" John stands up, sits on the arm of the sofa, and very gently, places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective tenses, but doesn't move away. "I thought he meant it. I let emotion, feelings, overwhelm my common sense. Stupid!" He slams a hand against the back of the sofa, and John rubs his thumb in a slow circle. "You should think less of me, John, for ever trusting a man like that."  
>"Sherlock," John says slowly. "Look at me." He looks up, and John waits until he meets his eyes. "You are a brilliant, intelligent, fantastic man – you are also egotistical, self-absorbed, and a nightmare when it comes to the fridge. But you are not stupid, or pitiable, or anything, anything like that – no matter what Moran made you think. That bloody idiot is loyal to Moriarty, of all people. Whereas. Well. Whereas I'm loyal to you." They stare at each other then, and it's John who breaks away first. "You should sleep."<br>"Stay. In here. I mean." So John sits on the couch again, puts the TV on, muted with subtitles, and waits there until morning.


	13. Chapter 13

Light breaks into John's sleep-dulled mind, and he mutters curses under his breath as he drags himself up, out of the armchair, ignoring the crick in his neck and the ache in his knees. "Sherlock," he says, a little louder than is probably necessary. The taller man stretches, and finds himself whimpering as some of the cuts re-open beneath the gauze. "Come on, we're going to have to get your ankle sorted out." He reaches towards him, offering a hand to help him out, but Sherlock doesn't take it, and John takes it back instantly. "Tea?" Of course, he thinks, it would take longer than just one conversation. There's a knock on the door, and he can hear Mrs. Hudson fussing for a while before Mycroft appears in their living room.  
>"Ah, Sherlock," he says, "I am pleased to see you doing so well." He turns, takes in John, with the dark circles he knows that are surrounding his eyes, and smiles. "And you, John."<br>"Mycroft," he says darkly, wondering why the man is here.  
>"I came to apologise," Mycroft says, forcing the words out as though he can't quite believe he's saying them, and John wonders at what kind of mother could have raised two such children. "I did not know the specifics of Sherlock and Moran's relationship…" At this word, a retching comes from the couch and before John is even aware he is stood between the brothers. "And so I am afraid I could not prepare you adequately. Needless to say, the man will be dealt with."<br>"You told him," Sherlock says.  
>"He asked."<br>"You didn't have to tell him."  
>"You wouldn't have done."<br>"I…"  
>"No, Sherlock, I am fully aware of how well you deal with others. It was obvious from the conversation that John trusted you well enough to be worried about accidentally doing something to break that, and I thought it would be best for both of you if I cleared that concern up before it began to matter." John shifts awkwardly, and a smile flares onto Mycroft's face.<br>"I shall leave you two to recover for now," he says, handing John a small business card. "Hand this in at the hospital; they shall see you in no time at all. Goodbye."

Neither man speaks until they hear the door click, and then John turns back to the lean figure on the couch. "I should have asked you," he says, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  
>"Is it always this difficult to deal with people?" Sherlock asks, and John snorts.<br>"Never noticed that before then?" Sherlock looks awkward, and John offers his hand again. He takes it this time, and once he's managed to get off the couch, John slings an arm around his waist, tugging Sherlock's arm around his shoulders. "Don't want you breaking your neck down the stairs now do we?" He starts to walk but Sherlock stops for a second, so John stops too.  
>"John."<br>"Yes?"

"It's...ah...it's difficult to deal with people I, ah, actually care about." John just laughs, and Sherlock looks offended.  
>"Surprising as it may sound, oh great detective, we all find that." Sherlock's lips twitch, and John's grin widens. "You know, for a genius, you're pretty slow."<br>"Is this how you treat all your patients?"  
>"Only the ones I like." They make it down the stairs, trading insults every step, and John thinks that maybe – just maybe – talking to Mycroft had been the right thing to do after all.<p> 


	14. Epilogue

**Okay, so I couldn't resist writing a little more Lestrade. You can find the sequel to this under the title 'Close To Home'. Thanks for reading, and yes, this time it really is the end.**

* * *

><p>It's a week or so after when John finds himself at the pub with Lestrade. Sherlock stayed home, tapping away at the keyboard on John's laptop with a familiar gleam in his eye, but he pressed his card into John's hand. "Buy him a drink on me," causing John to grin. "Been learning how to deal with people you actually like, Sherlock?" There's just a grunt, but John knows he's right.<p>

The whole force is out tonight, and John and Lestrade find themselves pleasantly merry without having bought a drop themselves. "So," John starts, clapping a hand to the DI's shoulder. "Lestrade."  
>"Greg!" the man shouts over the noise.<br>"Greg, then. You never told me what happened!"  
>"Oh, the usual. Bunch of bloody kids, half of them didn't know which end to even hold the guns at." John laughs, and feels someone tap him on the shoulder. It's a young man, one he's sure he recognises from the odd crime scene here and there.<br>"He's being modest," the man interrupts, placing another pint in front of Greg. "If he hadn't been there we'd have been in trouble." Greg tries to wave the man away, but John grins.  
>"Oh yeah?"<br>"Yeah – they weren't nearly as inexperienced as he's making out. Couple of the lads would've ended up in hospital if Greg here hadn't been running the operation." John turns, and sees the DI sinking into his seat, a hint of red creeping into his cheeks.  
>"Oh really? Tactical genius, is he?"<br>"That he is – we brought in about thirty kids, cleared the entire warehouse, and got away with no more than a couple of bruises!"  
>"Oi, Brad – it's your round over here!" someone shouts across the pub, and the man mock salutes then leaves. John turns round with a roar of laughter.<br>"Not planning on telling me?"  
>"Didn't want to brag."<br>"Didn't want to brag? You bloody deserve to, you fantastic man." Greg grins, and leans back against the bar.  
>"Anyway, what about you? Last I heard you broke into the place by yourself and got in a fight with the main man?"<br>"Ah, you know me – not gonna go down without a fight now, am I?"  
>"Suppose not -" John notices the room go oddly quiet, and turns in his chair, his balance wavering slightly. There's a familiar figure stood at the door, lean and ever so slightly awkward looking. He meets John's eyes, and John goes to meet him at the door.<br>"Sherlock?" The taller man is looking around nervously, eyes never quite stopping on anyone.  
>"I came to, uh…what they did – um, I…" John smiles, places a hand on his forearm, and feels him relax slightly.<br>"To say thanks? Just buy them a round." Sherlock looks at the floor, and John laughs, tugging him over to the bar. "Okay, I'll buy them a round, using your card, and I'll tell them it's from you. Better?"  
>"Yes. Much. Er. Yes." They go to the bar, and eventually the whole force has a pint in front of them. Sherlock stays close to John, who guides him over to where Lestrade is sitting. "You?" the DI shouts, his ears starting to go red from the alcohol. "In a pub? Bloody hell!" Sherlock looks awkward, and John shifts so that their elbows are touching.<br>"I told him I'd need a hand getting home," John lies, "It's your fault - you and all those pints you kept sneaking in front of me!"  
>"You didn't have to drink them! Anyway, s'good to see you." He slaps Sherlock roughly on the back, and John sees everything in perfect detail – the hand connecting, the way every inch of him tenses, ready for flight, his eyes darting around the room, the automatic flinch closer to him – and grabs him around the wrist, feigning a fall. "Drunker than I thought," he says, flashing a brilliant smile at anyone looking. "Should probably get home, on shift in the morning." Sherlock looks down at him, all concern, and John shrugs "You know what Sarah's like."<br>"I'll take your share of free drinks then, shall I?"  
>"You do that, Greg, you deserve it." He opens his arms, and shares a brief hug with the man. "Have a good night!" John begins to make his way out of the pub, and, after hordes of handshakes and hugs goodbye, they stagger into the cold air.<p>

John straightens up almost instantly, and gestures round the corner. Once away from the entrance, he stops, and leans against the wall. "You alright?"  
>"What?"<br>"Y'know…" Sherlock looks away for a second, and then nods."Yes. I am." John nods back, and then Sherlock frowns slightly.  
>"Are you?"<br>"Course I am. Why'd you turn up anyway?"  
>"I told you, I wanted to show gratitude."<br>"And…?" John needles, and Sherlock glowers.  
>"Come on." He starts to walk away, and then turns back to ensure John is following. Sure enough, John catches up to his side, and then catches his hand. Sherlock doesn't look at him, and to the outside world, doesn't even react. But to John, who can feel the faint squeeze in return, he knows exactly why Sherlock came and what he means. <em>Thank you.<em> John barges his arm against the taller mans, throwing him off balance for a moment, and gets a brilliant smile in return. "Idiot."  
>"You too."<p> 


End file.
